plans.
The silence about him impinged; it was not what he was used to. The building was newly completed and, thus far, only partially let; the offices to either side lay empty. In addition, the builders had used thicker glass in the windows, which muted the sounds of the traffic along King Street to a distant rumble.
He glanced up—through the doorway to the outer office; he’d left the door between open so he could see the corridor door. He needed to find a secretary; he’d put up a listing that morning, but doubted anything would come of it for at least a few days. The clerk at the labor exchange had said he would circulate the listing to the exchanges in those parts of the city more likely to harbor a suitable female.
Until he hired someone, he was on his own, yet to his mind, getting the Cavanaugh Yachts workshop functional as soon as possible had to remain his pre-eminent goal.
While approving Wayland’s design was easy enough, checking his figures required concentration; marshaling his, Kit started on the dimensions of the office closer to the warehouse door, matching them with Wayland’s suggested timber frame.
Someone hammered on the outer door.
Startled, Kit looked up—in time to see the door flung open and a neatly dressed lady storm in.
She halted, saw him, and skewered him with a scorching glare.
Tall, with a willowy figure and svelte curves, garbed in a violet-blue walking dress over a white silk blouse, her wheat-blond hair drawn back from an arresting face carved from alabaster—
Recognition slammed into him and scrambled his brain.
Sylvia Buckleberry?
At his stupefied reaction, her eyes narrowed even further. She whirled and shut the door, then, with a furious swishing of skirts, marched through the outer office.
She stepped into his inner sanctum and let fly. “I might have known!” Her tone dripped acid; her bosom swelled as she drew breath. “Of all the cities in England, you had to choose this one, and, of course, you think nothing of trampling over whomever and whatever stands in your way.” She locked her eyes on his as she halted on the other side of the desk, then dramatically flung her arms wide. “I can just imagine the reactions of the Dock Company directors. ‘Yes, my lord. No, my lord. Three bags full, my lord.’” Indigo sparks flared in the periwinkle-blue of her eyes. Her lush lips set in a thin line, she glared at him accusingly. “I’m quite sure that’s how it went.”
She railed on, but while Kit’s brain registered her words, he wasn’t really listening.
Instead, he could only stare, grappling to make sense of the transformation of Sylvia Buckleberry that had manifested before him.
The first and last time he’d seen her—just weeks ago at Rand’s wedding, where, courtesy of Sylvia being one of Felicia’s bridesmaids and Kit being one of Rand’s groomsmen, Kit had been Sylvia’s partner—she’d treated him to a very effective cold shoulder. More, she’d given every indication of being a rigidly buttoned-down, haughtily dismissive, and chillingly distant sort of lady.
The lady before him was anything but.
This Sylvia Buckleberry was all fire and passion and life.
Blatantly driven by determination and willpower, she was a force of nature done up in a very attractive package.
On an intellectual level, he was aware that he’d noticed her physical attributes before, but at the time, their impact had been negated by her attitude. Now, however, this Sylvia Buckleberry was fixing his attention in a much more avid way.
She had, quite literally, transfixed his senses and scattered his wits.
And his lack of response to her tirade was making her seethe.
The glare she leveled at him was all hellfire and brimstone. “I’m well aware that London rakes cannot be expected to care in the slightest over a dockyard school, but why couldn’t you remain in London? Why did you have to come here and spoil everything? Do you have any notion of how much damage you’re likely to do to the fabric of local society?”
Those words finally penetrated the haze fogging his brain. He blinked, then frowned. “What the devil are you accusing me of?”
The look she bent on him was all dismissive scorn. “As if you don’t know.”
His own temper rising, he narrowed his eyes back. “I have absolutely no idea—” He broke off as several facts coalesced in his brain, and he realized what the Dock Company men hadn’t told him. “Wait.” He held up a hand as he rapidly replayed various exchanges, and suspicion hardened to fact. He refocused on her. “The charity using the warehouse is a school?”
“Yes!” Fists clenched, Sylvia wanted to rage on, but the look on his face—the open chagrin—took the wind from her sails.
It was patently obvious that he hadn’t known his leasing of the warehouse meant the eviction of a school. He could be acting, but she didn’t think he was—that he would bother. She frowned. “The Dock Company didn’t tell you?”
“No. They didn’t.” The words were clipped and boded ill for whomever had omitted to mention the fact. “Indeed, they took great care to avoid doing so.”
She wanted to cling to her anger, to the strength of the fury that anger had converted to during the short walk to his office, but if he hadn’t known about the school...
Aside from all else, it seemed that, instead of being the indolent, care-for-naught hedonist she’d labeled him, he was actually trying to establish a business that would bring jobs to the struggling docklands.
While such an action was the last thing she would have expected of him, the evidence was too definite to doubt.
Her anger drained in a rush, taking her righteousness with it. Her shoulders fell; dejection loomed.
She was vaguely aware of his sharp gaze on her face, then he waved her to one of the chairs angled before the desk.
“Please—sit down. I need to know more about this school.”
Kit waited until she’d subsided onto the chair, then drew up the admiral’s chair he’d earlier pushed back and sat. Her expression had shuttered, her attention seemingly turned inward—to him, her retreat felt like the withdrawing of a source of warmth. But having once laid eyes on the real Sylvia Buckleberry, he wasn’t about to let her hide away behind a wall of chilly disdain. He caught her eyes. “Tell me all—all about this school.”
Frowning faintly, she hesitated, but then complied, describing the establishment of the school under the auspices of the Dean of Christ Church and the funding she’d secured from the parish council on condition that the premises for the school were found free of cost. “Two years ago, the only vacant building that was suitable was the old warehouse on the Grove—our requirements are rather specific in that the location of the school must be within walking distance of the boys’ homes. Given the boys are from dockworking and shipyard families, that means somewhere along the docks or close by, but other than on the docks themselves, the alternatives are the inner city, which is generally unsuitable, or more well-to-do areas, which are unaffordable.” She paused to draw breath, then went on, “With the help of their wives, I managed to
